


Buried in disciples

by nevernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Use Their Words, Homophobia, Hurt Sam Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Season/Series 02, a lot of anger hoo boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevernatural/pseuds/nevernatural
Summary: "You know what I was doing." Sam says, spiteful and mean and Dean frowns a little at that. "But it makes you uncomfortable, because it's different. So cut your bullshit."





	Buried in disciples

There's an itch under his skin.

It's not Dean's fault. Not only. Sam can't sleep - and when he does he has nightmares that end up in screams; and when he doesn't, he stares into the darkest corners of whatever room they're in and finds only sulfur-colored eyes; and when he's awake during the day, his throat gets clogged with guilt that feels so tangible he could throw up. It's not only Dean's fault, but he's certainly not helping either. Dean is a walking, talking example of pent-up masculinity ideals, of burying your emotions six feet and a half under and Sam understands it - he does. They were raised by the same father (served under the same sergeant) and he knows that because Dean stayed and Sam left, those lessons haven't developed into emotional trauma in Dean yet. They're still just lessons. But it's driving Sam insane, this insistent nonchalance, this laughing in the face of death and danger and adversity. He wonders what Dean would do if Sam turned to him, wide-eyed and shaking and buried his head in the crook of his neck like he used to do, when Dean still wanted Sam to be a kid, to be okay. Punch him, maybe? Push him away, at the very least, surprised and horrified at this sudden show of vulnerability. Sam doesn't know so he doesn't do anything like that.

He does go out, though. 

Dean's in the shower, in the hotel they're staying in and Sam almost leaves just like that. He's pent-up and angry - irrationally so, he knows that he's only pissed because it's the emotion that hurts the least to feel. He pauses though, teeth grinding and hand on the door, because he knows that if Dean comes out of the bathroom and Sam is gone, everything's gonna end in Dean screaming both their heads off and violently interrogating at least one unassuming hotel receptionist. So he finds a notepad and a pen and scribbles 'gone out. don't wait up' and sticks it under a fridge magnet. Then he leaves, stalking down the narrow hallways of the hotel and out into the street.

They've landed in a town, for once. An actual town, with police and cell reception and night clubs. It means that Dean's a little antsy because in a town like this, with a foundation and working law enforcement, there's a lot more people who might catch onto their game, but Sam knows how to make hiding in plain sight work for him - he looks like a college student. It also means that there's night life and that he can let off some steam. He walks around for a while, breathing in the city through his skin and it helps a little, it gives him something to look at. But he still has a weird, anxious energy in his legs, simmering in his finger tips, so when he turns down a side street and sees a blinking neon sign saying "Lucky" in the oncoming darkness, he makes a decision.

The bar is darkly lit, in subdued, yellow tones on dark, hardwood floors. There's not a lot of people here - it's a Tuesday - only two by the bar and a handful more spread out across wooden chairs and pool tables. Sam wouldn't call it seedy or grimy - it's relatively clean. He doesn't feel dirty or threatened in here, but he wouldn't call it nice either. He wagers tourists aren't welcome and that there's probably a backroom and some serious hustling going by the pool tables in the back, but it's the kind of lowkey he needs, so he heads for the bar, hoping their beer doesn't taste too much like the dirt its malt grew in. 

The bartender is an older woman, with gray curls and a white dress shirt and a tattoo poking out under its crumpled collar. She frowns, the second Sam sits down on the bar stool. He smiles in what he hopes makes him seem casual and not at all keyed up. 

“Just a beer. Bud Light or something, please.” The  _ please  _ might’ve been a wrong choice, because she arches an eyebrow, looking wholly unimpressed, even as she bends down under the counter and retrieves a beer to put in front of him. He thanks her - casually, of course. “Can you open a tab?” He doesn’t know for how long he’ll be here, but he hopes long enough for the simmering energy to be replaced with the fluid, swooping feeling that comes with too many beers and maybe a glass of whiskey. The bartender nods, with pursed lips, and right before she heads to the other end of the bar, she says: 

“Has anyone ever told you you have a serious condition of baby face?” Sam looks after her, indignantly, forgetting that he was supposed to seem calm and collected and someone to the left of him laughs. He turns his head.

When Sam was sixteen, he kissed a boy for the first time. Alternatively, and more correct - when Sam was sixteen, he was grabbed, with hands that shook a little against his sternum where they were clenched in his shirt, and kissed very, very gently. It was in the back of a library and the first thought Sam had was that it was pretty much the same as kissing girls. The feeling was the same. The warm, bubbling sensation that spread out in his toes and abdomen and made his hair stand on end was the same. The pleased little sound he made in the back of his throat was the same. But the sudden panic that set in after five seconds, the blaring, red alarm on the back of his eyelids reminding him that he shouldn’t be doing this wasn’t the same. He’d bolted out of the library and never looked back.

When Sam was in college, Jessica once casually mentioned having a girlfriend the year before and because Jessica was a wonderful, understanding person from a wonderful, progressive family she saw the blush on Sam’s cheeks and the stunned silence and knew it went deeper than anything he’d talk about in a crowd. So one night, she’d quietly, carefully asked him about  _ experiences _ . With both their eyes directed towards their ceilings and their hands clasped tightly in between them, they’d had a conversation that ended in Jessica saying ‘would you like to try it?’ and Sam burying his face in her neck, embarrassed and miserable and so grateful he could cry.

So he tried things. With Jessica and without and it was all really, really great. And he looked up labels and communities online and something inside him had clicked and he was okay with it for the shortest amount of time - but then Jessica went up in flames and so did his self-confidence, his acceptance, and he went back to Dean and ideals and tightly locked emotion in the clasp of his chest.

Now, in the dim light of the bar, Sam looks at the stranger two seats away and wonders about high school English terminology - poetic justice? Dramatic irony? Whatever it is, it’s fitting.

The guy who laughed at him is broad-shouldered and dark-haired - it looks brown but Sam thinks it could be slightly red in sunlight. He’s got a friendly face, freckled and fair-skinned and smile wrinkles by his eyes that tell Sam that he’s at least not in his early twenties anymore. Sam quirks an eyebrow.

“Something funny?” He asks but he does it with a twitch of his lips. He doesn’t wanna start a fight. The guy shrugs, noncommittally and takes a sip of his beer. 

“Not at all. Kind of rude, when you think about it.” He’s joking as well, and Sam feels a little spark of interest in his stomach. It’s not much to go on, but it’s more than he’s felt in a while, so he tries to hold on to the idea of the feeling - fake it, boy. Pretend. Act. He looks at the two seats in between them and shrugs, smiling softly against the mouth of the bottle.

“It’s a curse.” He says. 

“And a gift.” The stranger says and Sam laughs self-consciously and shakes his head so shaggy bits of hair cover his eyes, because if the guy’s got a capital-T, all italics,  _ Thing _ , then Sam can work with that. The guy gets up then, suddenly, and moves to the seat right next to Sam which is - yeah, which is pretty direct and pretty obvious and Sam tries to not look too paranoid as he glances over his shoulder at the men around the pool tables. Whatever. Maybe he just comes off as shy.

“I’m Liam.” The guy says and Sam clinks the necks of their bottles together. 

“Sam.” It’s an act of defiance maybe, giving out his real name.  _ Look at me, dad. Look at me, doing everything you don’t want me to do.  _ Liam clicks his tongue.

“Alright, Sammy. Next one’s on me.”

“The only way I’ll let you buy me a drink, is if you  _ swear  _ not to call me that.”

Liam laughs and fishes out his wallet from an inner pocket. “That’s fair. Sore subject?” Sam desperately doesn’t wanna talk. He shrugs, training his eyes on the patterns he traces on the bottle. 

“My brother calls me Sammy.” He looks at Liam, grimaces. “Don’t really wanna think about my brother tonight.”

Liam flags down the bartender. “Noted. What’s your poison?”

* * *

He lets Liam take him home, of course. He lets the guy spoil him, with long fingers and warm hands and, ridiculously enough, strawberry flavoured lube that Sam can smell as soon as the bottle is opened. He lets him top, and it’s sort of an unspoken agreement, because Sam knows how to read people. He doesn’t let the guy fuck him on his back, because then all he can see is the white ceiling, empty except for the imprints of fire on Sam’s eyelids, but when he flips them over and Sam rolls his head back, shaking his hair out of his eyes, Liam doesn’t sound the least bit disappointed. He talks dirty and Sam listens and it’s a little stupid - mostly stuff about his mouth and his dimples and his skin, stupid, toppy stuff that almost makes him more angry, until the sharp movements of his hips make the bed bang against the wall. God, he hopes the neighbors will give this dude shit for this. Sam comes first, victoriously, because he did this for himself, and Liam follows shortly after, strong fingers digging into Sam’s thighs. At this point, Sam’s already exhausted but he’s pleased at the prospect of bruises that he can poke and prod at over the next couple of days. When Sam slowly, gingerly, lifts himself off, Liam laughs, breathless and reaches to the side of the bed. He hands Sam a shirt from the floor and Sam scrunches his nose a little, but then dries himself off. Liam laughs again.

“God, you’re cute. I might want to keep you.” Sam bristles. 

They clean up in silence. When Liam leaves to get rid of the condom, Sam gathers his clothes and puts them on at side of the bed. Liam comes back, leans against the door frame. There’s something weirdly domestic about him, staring at Sam through the darkness, naked body painted in the blue light from outside.

“You can stay.” His voice is soft. “I make a mean omelette.” It’s sweet and Sam loses his reserve a bit, smiling apologetic ally. 

“I got - I got work in the morning.” It’s not a lie, technically. Fake IDs and rock salt count as a job. Liam nods, like he doesn’t believe it at all.

“That’s fair. I lied anyway, I’m a really bad cook.” Sam laughs at that, but it’s bitter and tired and he can’t be bothered to entertain anything. He gets up, pausing next to Liam in the doorway. He doesn’t look up but he can feel Liam’s eyes on him.

“See you around.” Liam says.

“For sure.” Sam says. And then he leaves.

Whatever excitement he felt at the bar, whatever red-hot rawness he felt with Liam, it’s gone now - but with it too, the anxiety, the nervous energy. It has seeped out of his bones, leaving him with only exhaustion, this mind-numbing heaviness in his limbs that make him sway and stagger a little on the way home. 

If Sam was less tired and more sober he would stall outside the door when he saw the light stream out in the hallway. He would lean his forehead against the frame, rest his shaking hand on the curve of the door knob and agonize over what to say and how to look when going in.

But he’s tired and sore and buzzed so he opens the door as soon as he gets to it. 

He does look at the floor while closing the door behind him but hears the bed creak when Dean sits up.

“Hiya, Sammy.” Fake.  _ Fake.  _ “Where you been?”

“Out.” Sam says, wrenching off his jacket. He smells of sex, strawberry, Liam’s cologne. Should’ve taken a shower. “Talked to some of the locals, but none of them seemed to know the vic. Kind of a loner maybe.” Sam looks up to see Dean leaning forward, sitting on the edge of the bed. The note Sam left is next to him, under his flip phone. Shoes on, shirt on. Sliding his rings off and putting them on other fingers - for a guy who spends half his time lying to people Dean is remarkably see-through. Or maybe that’s just to Sam. Or maybe Dean isn’t even trying. 

“Right,” he says, pursing his lips. “You spent five hours talking to locals who didn’t know anything?” Sam glances at the alarm clock on one of the bedside tables - huh. Boxy red letters showing a little past midnight. He wonders how long Dean has been waiting. He shrugs, eyes still on the floor.

“Walked around for a bit. Wanted some fresh air.” In a moment of insanity, Sam wishes Dean knows what he did. So he sits down at the kitchen table, close to Dean’s bed and stretches, rolling his neck, running a hand through hair that he knows is fucked up. Dean scoffs and mutters something and Sam can’t hear what it is, but it makes him snap, a sharp burst of irritation in his neck.

“What was that, Dean? Didn’t hear you.” Dean looks surprised, but only for half a second, before he leans back on hands, nonchalant - fake it, boy. Pretend.  _ Act _ .

“You fucking  _ reek  _ of sex, dude. And you got a hickey that looks like someone tried to take a bite out of your neck, so I know you know I’m curious.” Then he smiles, wolfish and sharp. “There’s nothing wrong with letting off steam, Sammy.” And just like that, Sam is angry again, because he knows why Dean sounds proud. Because in his mind, Sam charmed a European tourist with wide, blue eyes or a cute, red-cheeked waitress - which, yeah, he could have done - and ditched them while they were in the bathroom, in the middle of whatever slightly sexist post-sex ritual Dean imagines because he’s twenty-seven and still doesn’t know fuck-all about women. But this time, Sam is exhausted and his anger is heavy and sad and sits in his stomach like a rock so he just shrugs.

“I guess you’re right. I even asked the guy about the victim but he was new in the area, so you know. Figured I couldn’t let an opportunity go to waste.” Dean’s eye brows go a little down over his nose, confused. 

“The guy?” Sam nods, taps his neck. 

“The guy who gave me this.” He looks at Dean as his expression changes. Confusion, a wide-eyed realization and then, in an infuriatingly fast transition, the face of perfect calm. He doesn't even look surprised and Sam hates it.

“Right.” Dean says. “Sure thing.” He scoots a little up the bed, grabs a book on the nightstand which Sam, hilariously, knows is the bible.

That’s not gonna fly though, so Sam leans forward to untie his shoes. “What?” He says. “I thought you were curious?” Dean doesn’t move, but grimaces a little when he realizes what book he’s reading. He puts it down.

“Figured you should have some privacy.” Sam scoffs and kicks his shoes off, with a little too much force - one of them bangs against the leg of Dean’s bed.

“Bullshit.” He whispers and Dean arches his eyebrows.

“It’s a little late for an attitude, kiddo.” Sam laughs and Dean is quiet, reserved and authorial.

“Fuck off. God, you’re unbelievable.” Dean spreads his arms, a little like a challenge he dares Sam to take, a little like a game Sam know he can’t win.

“You wanna talk something out?” He asks. Sam shakes his head, goes to open the fridge mostly just to have something to do. The idea of this whole thing had been to burn off energy, to get rid off the restlessness, to tire himself out. But now he can feel himself sobering up and he thinks he could actually cry. 

“You never  _ talk  _ something out, Dean. Neither of you ever did.” From the bed, he can hear Dean mutter something under his breath again. 

“Right.” Dean says. “Sorry we hurt your feelings, Saman - “ There’s an empty beer can on the kitchen counter and Sam grabs it, hurls it at Dean before he finishes the sentence. Dean blocks it, of course, and it flies to the floor with a tinny, metallic sound. Sam hadn’t really intended to hit him anyway - but Dean looks angrier now, which helps. 

“You wanna lock that shit up?” Dean says - there’s a warning in the tone of his voice and the mental conviction it takes Sam not to back down is insane. 

“Jesus!” He says, a bit too loudly. “Just - that’s what you do! That’s what you always do,  _ lock that shit up _ , it’s no fucking wonder we’re this - this, this dysfunctional.” Dean is looking at Sam with hard eyes, lips in a tight line.

“We’re not dysfunctional, Sam, we do what we need to do - “

“To survive, sure, whatever. Fine - do me a favor then, Dean, fucking unclench and tell me what just happened.” Dean rolls his eyes. They’re quiet for a second, before Dean moves on the bed, leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. Sam wonders if he’s aware of how fucking obvious his body language is.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“Yeah, Sam, you told me.”

“You went from a hundred to a solid negative three the  _ second  _ you heard the idea of me fucking a guy.” Dean cringes a little and Sam’s hands curl into fists.

“I don’t wanna talk about your - “

“Of  _ course  _ you don’t!” He’s digging his nails into the meat of his palms now, and he wishes something would come bursting through the door, something evil and bloodthirsty so he could sink a knife into something’s chest or have it rip out his throat, or both, so people could never be sure who was the monster and who was the hero.

"You know what I was doing." Sam says, spiteful and mean and Dean frowns a little. "But it makes you uncomfortable, because it's different. So cut your bullshit."

Now Dean moves back again, to stand up at the edge of his bed. “So what.” He says. “You think I’m a homophobe?” The word sounds strange on Dean’s tongue - because homophobia is a college classroom thing. It’s a political discussion, it’s social science, it’s angry, emotional rants in his dorm room that Sam didn’t know he had reason to go on. Dean was never a part of any of those those things so it throws Sam off course for all of two seconds - but then the nonchalance with which Dean says it, the arrogance, just makes him angrier.

“Do I - are you a - “ In his frustration, Sam can’t find his words, which used to happen a lot more when he was a teenager, staring his father dead in the eye and trembling with defiance. He's trembling now, too, and he focuses on how hot his skin feels, as if his blood is boiling. “Of  _ course _ you fucking are, Dean. When have you ever given me  _ any  _ proof that you aren’t?” Dean gets closer, slowly, until they stand on opposite sides of the round table. “You and - you and dad, you did your very fucking best to let me know what a real man was. No, no emotions, no connection, no introspection, it was like even having a personality was  _ girly _ . And you used words, you - don’t be a girl, be a man, sorry we hurt your  _ feelings, Samantha _ , don’t fucking pretend you don’t know what that did to me.” He knows he’s being unfair - just because Dean isn’t in the exact same boat as him, it doesn’t mean that their paths don’t run parallel, perpendicular to their father’s. It fucked Dean up as well, but he didn’t get out. And in two or four or six years, Sam will look back and realize something about internalization and anger issues but for now he just lets a lot of late night thoughts spill out of him. “At what point could I have looked at you and thought, for a second, that being anything but straight was a good thing.”

“I never wanted you to think it wasn’t.” Dean’s voice is loud, escalating in volume alongside Sam’s but his face is gentle, more open than Sam has ever seen it be. He refuses to let it bother him. "It just - it didn't come up."

“Of course it didn't, well - I did. For a long fucking time, and being raised like a  _ soldier  _ didn’t help.”

“We did that to  _ protect  _ you. To keep you safe.”

“ _ You  _ kept me safe Dean, but that shit, that - toxic fucking masculinity didn’t keep me safe, it  _ traumatized  _ me.” He doesn’t realize how loud they’ve been before three loud knocks on the door makes him jump.

Then - “ _ Shut up! _ ” Then - harsh, quick footsteps down the hallway, away from them. Then - silence. And just like that, Sam is tired again. He waves a hand. 

“Whatever.” He says. “I’m going to bed.” He throws himself on his mattress. Maybe Dean is right. Maybe locking it up is better, because this hasn’t worked - Sam has poured his heart out in a two-star hotel room, with his brother looking angry and helpless and weirdly, infuriatingly vulnerable across a kitchen table but it doesn’t feel like anything is resolved. The only thing that’s changed between now and before Sam went out, is that now he feels down-trodden and resigned. Sam looks at the door and listens to Dean moving around to his right - quiet and shuffling, before the bed next to him creaks. He wishes Dean would settle the fuck down or turn out the light, so he could be left to his nightmares and the tears stinging the corner of his eyes. But, of course, that doesn’t happen.

“So are you - are you gay?”

“Jesus  _ christ _ , Dean.” 

“I just wanna know, Sam. No - no chick flick moments, but I’d like to know. You know. For wingman purposes.”  _No chick flick moments,_ of course. Sam scoffs and rubs a hand over his eyes. This moment is always the worst, somehow. This labeling - like whatever he says will be final, like he won’t get a chance to redo it, should he change his mind. He shrugs.

“I don’t know. I never told anyone like - I never -  _ came out _ to anyone. Didn’t really have a word. I just wanted to avoid being a freak.” Dean looks at him, Sam can see the sharp turn of his head out of the corner of his eyes.

“Jesus, Sammy. You’re not a freak.” Dean says and gets up. Sam is suddenly terrified that Dean’s gonna cross the few feet between their beds - that if he sits down next to him, if he places a hand on his leg, his shoulder, warm and big brother like, Sam won’t have a choice but to break the fuck down. Dean doesn’t, though. Dean walks over to the door and flicks off the light, leaving the room in darkness. “Not because of this. Never because of something like this.”

Sam breaks down, but he does so quietly - he cries himself to sleep and he isn’t sure why.

 

* * *

 

Never because of something like this. Because your family hunts monsters - because you have scarred your knuckles on brick walls and broken bones - because you have been taught pain - because you have tasted blood of men and monsters and it's hard to tell the difference. But not because of this.

* * *

 

 

“You said you hadn’t told anyone.” Dean says. He’s patching up Sam, stitching a cut on his shoulder, deep enough for Dean to look worried, not deep enough for Sam to be. He groans at the pain - it feels as though all of his blood has congregated around the open wound, pulsing under Dean’s fingers.

“What?” He gasps. Dean clamps the suture scissors around a new thread. 

“Last week. What you were. What - what word you picked for yourself. You said you hadn’t told - sit still, Sammy - that you hadn’t told anyone.” Sam bristles, forcing his arm to stay in place, his other hand going white where he’s grabbing the table.

“Is this the time?”

“It’s always the time if you want it to be.” It’s such an honestly emotional thing to say that Sam is stunned into silence. He trains his eyes on Dean’s face, who very stops what he’s doing, thread pulled halfway through Sam’s skin. He looks at Sam who blinks, owlishly. 

“Well, I - “ He says and Dean continues his work. “I don’t know. I like. I’m into - you know. I like women but, I mean. I obviously don’t mind dudes either.” He can see Dean smile out of the corner of his eye.

“You can pick and choose.” He drawls. “I see the ideal.” Sam doesn’t reach out to punch him, because Dean is holding both a needle and another sharp metal object very close to his open cut, but he does send him a look that makes Dean snap his mouth shut.

“Gotcha.” Dean says. “Tread lightly.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes and Sam thinks. He doesn’t  _ agonize _ . He thinks. 

He thinks about the kiss at the library. He’s forgotten what the boy looks like, but he knows that he took initiative and that his hands where shaking when they took hold of Sam’s shirt and that the kiss felt like his chest was full of dandelion seeds and soapy bubbles. He knows that it was so good for all of five seconds before something ugly and ingrained had made him  _ recoil  _ and run away. He thinks, not for the first time in his life, about what the boy must’ve felt like after that. He wishes he could undo it. He thinks about college and new experiences. Of bartenders and pretty librarians and dating apps and Jessica.

In the end, it’s the thought of Jessica that makes him make a decision. Because of course it’s Jessica - it’s always Jessica. It’s the memory of Jessica waving a piece of paper in his face, saying ‘ _ I got you his number’.  _ It’s the thought of Jessica, kissing him very, very gently. Of saying ‘ _ It’s okay, god, you’re okay’.  _

Sam looks up. 

“Bi.”

Dean freezes, in the process of wiping down Sam’s arm, now all stitched up. His eyes flicker.

“Uh. Bye? You going somewhere?” Fuck.

“No, I - “ Sam laughs. “Bisexual. That’s - that’s the word I found, back then. I’m - bi, or whatever.” Dean nods, understanding. He throws the rag he’s used at Sam’s chest, bloody and damp and Sam makes a sound of disgust when it lands in his lap.

“Well, nice to meet you, ‘bi or whatever’. I’m Dean.” He stands up with a self-satisfied smile, which is a mistake, because it puts his stomach right in front of Sam and this time he does lunge out after him. 

He does it with a smile though. Not  _ everything  _ is Dean’s fault.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm here, in 2018, not having seen a single episode of spn in two years, writing angry, wordy sam winchester fanfiction because the day i let my queer-coded characters go without a published piece of creative writing is the day hell freezes over
> 
> title taken from "the village" by wrabel


End file.
